Sometimes, best deal is no deal at all

Published 4:00 am, Wednesday, July 4, 2007

yard sales
Knick knacks on a table at a Flea Market (could be a garage sale?)

yard sales
Knick knacks on a table at a Flea Market (could be a garage sale?)

Photo: Istock Handout Jim Jurica

Sometimes, best deal is no deal at all

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I used to be a yard sale junkie. Every time I spotted tables piled high with colorful stuff on a front lawn, I slammed on the brakes. The thrill of possibility, the satisfaction of feeling flush, and the pleasure of glimpsing the flotsam and jetsam of other people's lives made me change course every time I spotted a sign announcing a rummage sale.

"This is recycling at its best," I told the friends who equated my pastime with scavenging. Enthusiastically, I defended private sales as a cultural phenomenon. Because I felt that they perfectly bundled and expressed the quintessential American values of materialism, mobility and pragmatism, I always put them on the itineraries of my European visitors. I was sure Adam Smith would be pleased by these free markets, where the invisible hand smoothly guides the flow of supply and demand.

Emerson would like them because they create public spaces and build community by inviting interaction among neighbors and strangers. I appreciated their slightly subversive aspect -- every weekend, these alternatives to mall-shopping added up to a modest second economy that circumvented corporate driven consumerism.

Lauding the pleasure and politics of yard sales, I never dreamed that one day, I would find a life lesson among dishes, tools and throw pillows that made me reconsider my cherished weekend activity. As every aficionado knows, going to yard sales is nothing like going on a shopping spree.

Unlike Macy's or Target, these family affairs don't guarantee certainty of selection or abundance of options. They are encounters with chance.

Even though I never found a diamond ring among the screws and baubles or discovered an Edward Hopper original behind a poodle portrait, I have stumbled upon wondrous things: a dusty stamp collection in a dresser drawer, a box full of deer antlers wedged between a picnic basket and a hair dryer, a set of tiny tarnished silver espresso spoons.

I learned not to linger at any one sale so long that I felt the sad weight of scarred and broken objects. And I tried to resist the temptation of closing every single once-in-a-lifetime deal, knowing that the objects that ended up languishing in my "rummage sale" box weren't a bargain after all.

Yard sales always awakened the artist slumbering inside me. Standing on someone else's lawn, with the sun warming my shoulders, it was easy to imagine possibilities: some creative stitching would resurrect the slightly torn green silk kimono; an itty-bitty paint job would revitalize the carved kitchen chairs, a bit of sorting and restringing would transform broken necklaces into stylish gifts.

Inevitably, I forgot to calculate the time it would take to complete my imagined projects. Once I had the project-objects in my possession, they quickly changed from daydream to nightmare -- the same things that had sparkled with potential became annoying reminders of the distance between an idea and its execution, of the bitter fact that I never had enough time.

Walking my dog early on a Saturday, I stopped to watch a family setting up things in front of their home. I could see immediately that this was a "jackpot sale." Everything was laid out with care. On a large oak table, an old samovar towered over crystal vases, figurines and a complete set of china; Japanese prints leaned against wooden children's furniture, zafus perched on throw rugs, freshly washed and ironed clothes hung from the low branches of the Magnolia tree, back issues of Tricycle and The Sun were neatly stacked on blankets in front of the jasmine bushes.

Clearly, this yard sale was not an unceremonious tossing out of things no longer wanted, but a ritual of fond farewell. And yet, the prices were unbelievably low; "presque gratuit," as my French friend likes to say, "just about free." I jogged home to get my checkbook. When I returned, other browsers had gathered and in the buzz of their excitement, my own enthusiasm changed to greed. As I was grabbing things, I saw a woman pick up the gleaming copper-bottomed pots that I had set aside. "Those belong to me" I said sharply. She ignored me, so I raised my voice. A man walked over, smiling. When he offered the obvious compromise: "Why don't you split them up?" I felt a rush of anger. The pots were mine, I had them first!

His bemused look brought me to my senses. Remembering all the pots I had at home, I felt like a fool. "Take them," I said to the woman, feeling like the true mother in the story of Solomon. I sat down next to the items I had picked out for myself and observed people snatching and clutching, as I had done just moments earlier. I overheard the man telling someone that he and his wife were moving to a small house in Point Reyes to live more simply. I looked at my pile. What would I do with these things, I wondered. Use them, store them, dust them?

"I have all that I need and more." I repeated these words silently, like a mantra, as I dispersed what I had gathered. Only the vase made of thick blue glass (that cost less than a cappuccino) came home with me. Every time I see it, I remember how good I felt that day, when I let go.

Just because I don't stop at yard sales anymore doesn't mean that I don't still love them. Every time I see one, I blow the crowd a kiss and hope the invisible hand strokes buyers and sellers alike. As I drive on, I savor the pleasant feeling of not needing a thing.